


A Conundrum for the Long Weekend

by Rosendal



Series: Conundrums for the Long Weekend [1]
Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:22:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosendal/pseuds/Rosendal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a body washes up on the banks of the Thames, Sherlock Holmes is not the only detective to arrive on the scene...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Conundrum for the Long Weekend

“I’ve been known to dabble.”

“By which you mean you have no professional experience whatsoever.”

“I’m a dilettante, yes, but I’ve not been without my successes in the field-”

“Conundrums for the long weekend; amateur.”

“Maybe so, but there’s a fair few scoundrels locked away for it, so all to the better, I say, and-”

“Quiet.”

“But-”

“Thinking.”

****

The body washed up at the bank of the Thames in the early hours, blanched and bloated, face down in the mud. A bomb scare on the other side of the city drew the police away, leaving only a few young officers to guard the scene and await the forensics team.

****

At the tape which cordoned off the crime scene, Sherlock had been met by a man who claimed to be a big fan. Pale and blond, the man had the unflappable appearance of one whose circumstances have never required him to work; his light-tweed three piece suit had been somewhat ruined by the addition of wellington boots and gaiters. He had cheerfully introduced himself as Wimsey, had offered a well-manicured hand to the detective, and had been completely ignored.

****

Unperturbed by this, Wimsey followed after Sherlock, returning his hand with a deft movement to his pocket as though to cover up the fact that he had been foolish enough to assume a handshake was in the offing. Sherlock Holmes: perhaps his view of forensic sterility was stronger than Wimsey’s, but no matter. Lord Peter Wimsey was, by nature, able to talk the tail off a crocodile and so, gradually, he had coaxed the man into a conversation which had remained uninterrupted even as Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket.

****

“Quiet.”

“But-”

“Thinking.”

****

“Oh yes. Right. Just so!” Wimsey, himself, drew out a magnifying glass and crouched by the body to get a better look; Sherlock straightened up, paused in his examination, eyes skidding to a halt where the Wimsey was crouched.

****

“What are you doing?” He said, eyes narrowing sharply, as though the man had slapped him hard across the face. His tone made Wimsey look up, his own eyes aglimmer with the thrill of detection.

****

“Deducing,” Wimsey said, “Or rather, gathering evidence to do so.” He waved the magnifying glass, as a child might a ruler with which he intended to draw a straight line, or a teaspoon with which he planned to sweeten tea. The intention was likewise implicit with the object, and so Wimsey did not wait for Sherlock’s approval before returning to his examination.

****

White, female, erring closer to thirties than twenties by the state of her hair, though one never could tell without washing the damn things whether that was down to mud and Thames water; the skin was perhaps more indicative, the odd crow’s foot, but Wimsey knew from experience that corpses had a dastardly habit of swelling once the old rigor mortis set in. Pity that- but his thoughts were cut off as Sherlock cleared his throat.

****

“Rebecca Maddock-Jones,” he said with authority and once again Wimsey looked up, “twenty-nine, private nurse - BUPA - recently divorced single mother of two - staying with her mother since the divorce as her ex-husband kept the family home in,” and here he nudged Wimsey aside, almost sending the man sprawling into the grey sludge of the bank and wiped a finger across the woman’s boot heel, “North Wales.”

****

Wimsey blinked, regaining his balance before drawing himself up to his full height. This rather lost effect when, combined with the slight sloping of the bank, he found that even then Sherlock could easily look down his nose at him. Blue eyes over sharp cheekbones, haughty lips drawn in amusement at the expression on Wimsey’s face.

****

“How?” Wimsey began, but the answer was presented in a seamless torrent almost as soon as he had opened his mouth.

****

“Deduction.” Sherlock said, moving around the body to indicate as he explained, “Hair pulled up out of her face, a job that requires concentration; Piercings but no make-up or jewellery, not even ear-rings: something sterile then. Darkness around around the eyes - late nights, not one or two but frequent, looking after patients and children. Look at her clothes: maternity-wear, though she is clearly not pregnant: a second child - to save the failing marriage. Stupid idea. Divorce: tan line on her ring finger, pale band where she removed her wedding ring - not long ago: no more than a month.  Where does a divorcée mother go - maternal instinct, back to her own mother, which brings her to London and from the soil on her shoes; distinctive, grey-brown. Rendzina. Coupled with her name, she can only have come from Wales.”

****

This, delivered without pause for breath, left Wimsey wide-eyed, the slowly rising grin of a child in a sweet shop blossoming on his pale face.

****

“...her name? You couldn’t possibly-”

****

“Identity card.” Sherlock said, holding the card up between two fingers. A satisfied smirk crept onto the man’s face. “Always check the pockets, even a dilettante should know that. Textbook.”

****

“Good grief,” Wimsey looked between the man and the corpse, his eyes wide, “All that, from- but that is-”

****

“Amazing?” Wimsey span around to see another man crossing the mud from the direction of the road. “He gets that a lot.”

****

“So I would imagine; and you are?”

****

“Dr. John Watson,” said the new arrival, offering a hand which Wimsey received, glad at least that someone understood basic etiquette.

 


End file.
